


Gifts

by CatalenaMara



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:46:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatalenaMara/pseuds/CatalenaMara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mistletoe!  Written for ksadvent 2012.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gifts

The sensory assault of the main rec room

is in keeping with typical human excess.

Specimens of _Abies procera_ and _Abies balsamea_

are on display

filling the air with their scent,

every branch completely laden

with bright ornamentation

nearly obscuring the evergreen conifers beneath.

It seems pointless that

Lt. Sulu spent so much time

carefully nurturing them in botany

if they are to be barely visible beneath the weight

of their decorations.

 

McCoy offers me a highly caloric beverage.

I pretend ignorance of the custom of “eggnog”

and speak of the illogic

of human solstice traditions.

He snorts and grins. 

“I still can’t believe Jim managed to drag you here.”

He begins to embark on his own brand of illogic

as we walk further into the room.

He has recently made a study

of ancient Vulcan customs

and is eager to demonstrate that

my own people possessed illogic

in ages past.

 

I avoid the trap in the center of the room.

There is a specimen of _Phoradendron flavescens_

hanging from the ceiling.

It has caused much revelry among the crew.

 

McCoy, however, has seen Lt. Barrows.

And she has seen him.

In perfect synchronization they move to meet

and kiss beneath it.

 

Tables are filled

with the gleam and glitter of countless packages.

They will be opened at an appointed time.

Cpt. Kirk will make a speech,

and they will be exchanged.

 

I am certain that the noise level will be painful and behavior raucous.

I will be back on the bridge by then.

You will suggest I stay.

And you will, logically, let me go.

I need no gifts

Other than what you give me freely.  Every day.

 

You walk the room

drawing all eyes

though the party continues

with only imperceptible pauses

as you pass by.

You stop here and there

free with your gifts of greetings, comments, compliments.

 

I can classify them,

logically,

these gifts you give to me,

as subsets of human behavior.

 

I can classify them,

illogically.

The language of emotion

is as complex as the language of logic.

Friendship.  Amusement.  Trust.

Interest.  Intrigue.  Speculation.

 

…desire?  ….love…

 

It would be illogical to make such inferences

were it not for the preponderance of evidence.

You are generous with your gifts.

 

There are your smiles,

nearly infinite in variety,

dazzling as light across the miracle of water

and generous as Earth’s oceans

and often directed

solely at me.

 

There are your glances, which take me in.

in whole,

and in part.

Your gazes,

the way your eyes meet mine

as if you find me as endlessly fascinating.

As I do you.

 

There is your touch

A hand on my arm, my shoulder.

The brush of an elbow against my side.

Standing so close

there is no light between us.

The way you lean closer when speaking to me

your breath upon my skin.

 

Precious gifts all.

 

You have made your circuit of the room

and head directly back in my direction

through the heart of the room.

 

Your gaze catches mine.

You smile.

 

It is illogical

to feel a sensation of warmth.

The response, however, is a fact.

and I accept it.

I respond

permitting only the smallest smile in return.

 

You glance at the trap.  Many are watching you,

wondering

if you will pause beneath it.

 

You keep my glance.

You step

with only the briefest of hesitations

beneath the mistletoe.

Your smile, your gaze, does not waver

and you are moving again

walking away before

any could take you up on the customary invitation.

 

Approach

Slow

And stop.

Before me.

 

“Great party, Spock.”

 

His hand, ever so briefly, brushes against mine.

Unspoken, but clear.

He understands the significance.  I do not doubt.

It blazes between us.

The gift he is ready to give

is awaiting my acceptance.


End file.
